Werewolf Afterglow Etiquette
by Veterization
Summary: Derek/Stiles oneshot. Derek and Stiles have sex, and for once, when it's over with, Stiles is lost for words. It is only a little bit awkward.


_A/N_: I do not own Teen Wolf.

Of all the ways Stiles ever allowed his mind to imagine what sex with Derek Hale would be like, this is not exactly one of them.

It's not like he knew exactly how it would go—after all, he's never sat and devoted hours to daydreaming about Derek pushing him into a wall and nipping blood to the surface all the way down his neck and the expanse of his chest—but he definitely thought that aggression would play a bigger part.

He had assumed that they'd be in the middle of a squabble in which Stiles was babbling too much and Derek's jaw was twitching with poorly veiled impatience and then there might be some slamming, since Derek loves slamming, especially Stiles into hard surfaces, and their faces would end up being closer than either of them had planned, only a breath, an inch, a second apart, and then Derek would decide that the best way to shut the annoying kid up would be to occupy his tongue and Stiles would promptly hike his legs up Derek's hips and cling on for dear life.

Okay, so yes, he has thought about this a little bit.

After the initial bruising make out where Stiles' lips end up feeling raw and overused for a good week and his mouth would taste of Derek's musk no matter how many times he swallows down toothpaste, Derek would find purchase on Stiles' behind and drop him on his sheets without the slightest trace of apprehension or nerves, nothing but unadulterated passion and R-rated moans and a decreasing amount of clothes that would be carelessly scattered on the carpet because all they're focusing on for the next hour is each other, mapping out each other's skin and leaving marks of possession and promise on every piece of lickable flesh. Derek wouldn't talk much, and neither would Stiles, with the exception of a few breathy groans and hisses of each other's names to remind them both exactly who they're touching, and then Derek would take off Stiles' pants with no finesse and leave purpling bite marks on Stiles' hipbones before going in for the kill and sucking Stiles' dick directly into his mouth and gripping his thighs hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents where his fingernails would dig into the flesh of his leg.

Eventually, after the foreplay would turn inevitably heated and Stiles would break out into one, two, three sweats and demand Derek to _hurry the hell up_, Derek would comply with Stiles' orders and growl onto his collarbone as he grabbed his legs and yanked them apart, pushing his knees up to his chest and slicking himself up before snapping his hips forward and burying himself into Stiles, who would howl with initial pain because Derek wouldn't have time for wishy-washy virgin preparation nonsense, but soon enough he'd pick up a merciless rhythm that would have Stiles reeling and dizzy and beginning to feel like he's inhaled too many fumes from chemistry class, begging for more with incoherent pleas and in some cases, he would come so hard he'd black out and feel truly proud of himself for enduring such a rough round of aggressive mating. Then he'd let Derek lick him clean and massage his lower back with his thumb to ease the residual stings of pain, but he'd still wake up the next morning with a terrible ache in his ass that would cripple his ability to walk and have his father asking him questions about what's wrong with his legs, which Stiles would awkwardly wave off and dismiss with some unneeded chuckling.

Next to him, lying shoulder to shoulder, Derek shifts. The tension mounts.

Stiles had accurately predicted the squabble, he'll give his fortune-telling skills that much credit. He vividly remembers being relentlessly glared at with eyes that could murder kittens, as if dared to keep talking so damn much about an inane topic so trivial Stiles doesn't even remember what it was, when suddenly a second passed and Derek's hands were fisting his shirt and he was close enough for Stiles to count the dots of evening stubble on his jaw, the kind that would give Stiles' cheek rug burn if he nuzzled it for too long. Then Derek took a moment to analyze the situation, possibly to process the surprise at his own actions, and then their mouths were slotted cleanly together.

He will resolutely maintain that it was not his first kiss, despite what Scott continuously tells him about the drunken kiss he had with that hot girl from English at one of their junior high parties actually being a lamppost, and no, he didn't squeak in shock and his first instinct wasn't to bite down on Derek's lower lip and flail helplessly. However, he will admit that it was not exactly the stuff that fireworks and romantic comedies made kissing out to be, what with Derek's lips hard against his and his own mouth slack in astonishment that would normally have him stuttering out questions and excuses would he have full access to his mouth.

After that, things spiraled out of control, starting first with Stiles' shirt snagging on his chin when Derek pulled it from his shoulders to Stiles attempting to learn exactly how he's supposed to use his tongue when he's not eating chicken fingers or whistling but actually putting it in _someone else's mouth_, to Derek Hale taking off his boxers right in his eye line.

Now he's sprawled onto his wrinkly sheets, staring resolutely at the popcorn ceiling as if hoping to find constellations in it, shirt missing and legs equally bare, thighs sticky with a mixture of sweat and come that is slowly but surely crusting onto his legs like a scratchy second skin, Derek completely silent next to him. Never before has he wanted more to hear Derek's hidden loquacious side, from a grunt to a diatribe to a mild complaint.

He shifts, waiting for Derek to start talking first. As usual, he doesn't.

There had been a lot of fumbling. Twice Stiles had nearly fallen gracelessly from his bed, much too small to accommodate muscled limbs of Derek's size plus his own gangly body, and once he had outright slapped Derek in the jaw when he attempted to regain his balance after teetering precariously close to the edge of the mattress once more.

Despite from the unintentional bodily harm and Stiles' usual clumsiness, there had also been an unnecessary amount of _gentleness_ that had upped the awkward of the circumstances by at least ten, making for plenty of cumbersome moments of eye contact while Derek rubbed lube into his entrance and positioned himself. And then, when his fingers, his manly, calloused fingers, had finally slid into Stiles, there had been _pain_. It's not like he's a newcomer to the fact that things going up one's ass won't be a walk in the park, but had never fully grasped the concept of _tightness_ and _stretching_ and the less than pleasurable part of sex until Derek's slick index finger worked its way inside his hole and pressed against his walls.

Even with the pain that had Stiles biting the frayed edges of his pillowcase to keep his manly whimpers stifled, Stiles is almost positive that he would have preferred unbridled passion and bruising roughness to Derek's soft touches and almost cautious approach of gathering Stiles' rigid body in his arms when he first slid into him to the hilt and waited for the initial, agonizing mantra of _oh god oh god oh god why do people even have sex_ to come to an end. Maybe then he would have been distracted from exactly how awkward it was to have Derek Hale mapping his naked body out with his eyes and flexing his palm around the heat of Stiles' dick as if slowly becoming accustomed to the weight of it in his fingers, and more focused on _heat oh god so good ouch that'll leave me wearing turtlenecks for a month_ and arching into the nips of Derek's teeth and nearly begging for him to slow down all of the furious rutting and demanding touches to keep him from coming early.

The good news is, he supposes, that his orgasm was still pretty mind-blowingly awesome, especially when he's been operating on one man shows for the last sixteen years with nothing but his own hand to ease along the insistent influx of his adolescent hormones, not to mention that he's still reeling with the fact that Derek Hale—no, _someone_—actually wants to willingly romp around in bed with him.

Derek should get extra kudos for that, really, since not only did he agree to sleep with Stiles, who rambles and still isn't done growing into his clothes and is still learning day by day how to properly use his feet without tripping, but he mustered up the patience to stick out an entire round of sex without huffing and leaping from the window with his clothes slung over his shoulder, declaring Stiles and his inexperience with his hands a lost cause. This is possibly, Stiles thinks, a sign that Derek actually wants to be here.

He lets his eyes flicker left. Derek doesn't look any more up for pillow talk than he did fifteen minutes ago when they first rolled off of each other, returned oxygen to their lungs, and both wordlessly agreed to fixedly address the ceiling for the next hour even though they're both startlingly naked and coming down from a post-coital high they just delivered each other. He attempts to telepathically inform Derek that he needs to man up and grow balls as big as his biceps so he can make the first after-sex move and summarize exactly what just transpired between them so Stiles doesn't have to be the first one to casually and off-handedly comment on their lack of clothing in the hopes that Derek will either dispel or confirm his doubts.

Stiles rearranges his legs, the sound of come wetly sliding between his thighs assaulting his ears much like a wrecking ball crashing headfirst into a brick wall would. A part of him wants to take a shower and scrub off any and all offending bodily liquids, but another, more strong-willed portion of him screams at him to stay still because clambering over Derek's midsection off the bed before scrambling to the bathroom might make the situation even more awkward, especially when he'll probably be met with an empty bed and an open window after he finishes scrubbing the remains of their sexual escapades off his legs in the shower.

He realizes belatedly that he's no longer a virgin and promptly bites down on the victory laps that are begging to be given free reign inside his chest. He supposes his ears should be burning and he should be having a serious existential crisis and go call up Danny for friendly advice on Stiles' orientation since it's his ass cherry that just got deflowered—by Derek Hale, no less, that part will never be fully processed by Stiles' overworked cranium—and not Lydia Martin he's lying curled up next to, smelling her sweet perfume and burying his face in her strawberry curls so he can forever imprint the flowery scent of her shampoo to memory. Always in his mind, he's pictured a girl in the bed next to him—sometimes in the backseat of his Jeep with potentially foggy windows, because in his imagination he's _just that smooth_—mostly Lydia, pliable and wanting underneath him, with firm perky boobs and a soft stomach Stiles would routinely brush with the pad of his thumb, and sometimes nameless, faceless women with bodies perfect for running his hands over. They always had long hair, lean legs, and busty chests with lacy bras, and yet here he is, lying next to a man, the type of man who could never be mistaken for a woman no matter how drunk Stiles could get on his father's whiskey, and instead of regret and unfurling guilt coiling in his stomach into a pit of consternation of how to ease out of the situation gently, all he can think about is how badly he wants to climb on top of Derek, straddle his hips, and do it all _again_ so this time they can do it right, with just the right amount of rough pressure and uncensored want, and Stiles can feel that burst of the universe in his midsection against that makes his eyes roll up into heaven.

He sneaks another covert glance at Derek, whose eyelids are at half-mast and are quickly threatening to droop into a comfortable closed position. Internally, Stiles wrestles with himself and his ability to pipe up a fascinating topic with the man who just rocked his world and is making him rethink all of his masturbatory fantasies with hard concentration. What he seriously doesn't want is for all of this to slide into napping territory, which under normal circumstances would result in a sweaty cuddle where Stiles burrows himself into the comfortable crook of Derek's shoulder and breathes in their intermingled scents of satisfying sex while Derek slings a protective arm over Stiles' waist, but with them being shoulder-to-shoulder and several inches apart—it might as well be an entire continent to Stiles—this would hardly be the type of touchy, post-orgasm nap that would reassure Stiles that this really is a _thing_ that they both want.

Desperately, he wonders if this was a one time, experimental, let's-shut-up-that-ranting-kid thing that won't happen again, and that's why Derek's so speechlessly mute beside him, unwilling to say anything that might imply that this is about to turn into a habit, or day he say it, a trusting, caring _relationship_ where the two of them slip into each other's beds for blowjobs and sex all the time and then microwave pizza naked.

_Mmm, sex all the time_, Stiles' brain momentarily sidetracks, whizzing past all things significant to currently be addressed, and Stiles snaps himself back to reality, not allowing his boner to come back with a vengeance when he's in the middle of seriously assessing the situation and determining what Derek's stony silence actually means.

_It means he's waiting for the right time to slip away without you noticing so he can start forgetting about this as quickly as possible_, Stiles' mind helpfully chirps, and he momentarily takes a moment to curse his brain and its insecure tendencies when his body is already tense with the ever-present questions of what Derek Hale is even thinking right now—is he _ever_ thinking, really?—and what he may have done wrong during their brief tussle in the sheets in which Stiles attempted not to accidentally break anybody's dick and keep his flailing limbs in check.

"So," Stiles says to the air, folding his hands delicately together on top of his chest and proceeding to twiddle his thumbs. "Was that good for you, or should I just pay for your therapy bills?"

He waits for the worst to hit him, like a scoff or a little _tut_ of patronizing maturity of Derek being more aware of the situation than Stiles is, like Derek knows perfectly well that this kid is getting this all wrong and that he's just here for the sexual outlet, and Stiles stares hard at the ceiling with squinted eyes as if it will somehow ease the pain of rejection. Good for him, however, the pain of rejection is not a foreign sensation, years of chasing after Lydia Martin's cold shoulder making the icy glares of refusal and sympathetic shakes of the head like daily routine to him.

When no answer greets him, Stiles looks over to make sure he's not talking to a man who's been asleep for the past ten minutes. However, Derek is hardly napping, looking at him incredulously like he's never heard such a stupid question before in his life. Stiles can think of numerous questions much more stupid than the one he asked, as this one actually makes a relevant impact on his life and whether or not he'll be getting some from a hand that isn't his own for a while or if Stiles' awkward shimmying and ineptitude in bed is too much work to train through.

"Dead silence. Okay, I can work with that. So, one night stand, then?"

Derek looks at him, and for a nanosecond, his eyes flash with something that looks like Stiles has actually managed to truly insult him, and then it fades back into his usual dull look of default irritation.

"You think this was a one-off?"

"I don't know, man!" Stiles says, throwing his arms helplessly into the air for emphasis. He wants to add _I never know what you're thinking because talking to you is like trying to have a conversation with a mannequin, you never know when it's actually real and listening!_ and then mentally corrects himself into adding that Derek and his buff form would be more likely to stand in the window of an _Abercrombie & Fitch_ than just be the average _Macy's_ dummy. "I can't work wonders and figure out what's going on inside your head, okay? Could you just spare me the headache and tell me what you're thinking?"

Derek looks like sharing his thoughts and having an honest to goodness conversation about why and how he and Stiles just made the beast with two backs is absolutely the last discussion he's willing to verbalize.

"I mean, did you even enjoy yourself?" Stiles moans, feeling more and more like the first thing he needs to do when he worms out of this bed or lets the mattress swallow him is buy a few copies of _Sex for Dummies_ to make sure he won't have this mental whirlwind of a dilemma again—possibly _Gay Sex for Dummies_, considering recent developments, which he should really ask Danny for to see if he owns such informative literature—and looks at Derek to see that the disbelief has yet to leave his face.

"Did I even enjoy myself?" Derek repeats, rather scathingly, and Stiles is about to tell him to cut back on the snark and perhaps lend him some answers when suddenly, Derek is straddling him, knee nudging Stiles' legs apart and fingers pressing against his swollen hole. Stiles yelps and is about to squirm up the bed when Derek grabs him firmly by the shoulder and presses a fingertip into his sore entrance, taking a moment to first gather the drops of his come trickling from Stiles' entrance to slick his finger with before pushing in.

"Aah—are you trying to tell me something?"

Derek retracts his finger, now glistening with the shine of his own slick come, and Stiles licks his lips and tries to stomp down on the insane urge to lick it clean, since after all, it's not like that stuff is a banana smoothie his dad whipped up for him, and he's pretty sure Derek's come is as sour as he is a person.

"Did you really think I didn't enjoy it when I came in you?"

_Crude_, Stiles thinks, and feels his entire body light up like a Christmas tree and a new surge of arousal furl around his spine at the vulgar inquiry. He squirms a bit and lets a small smirk tickle his lips for a moment, because it's just now sinking in that he made Derek Hale _come_ all with the sexual allures of his own sixteen-year-old body which—hopefully, because he'd like to grow into his knobby knees a bit—hasn't gone entirely through puberty yet, the only thing better being if he had made Derek cream his pants like a fourteen-year-old kid catching sight of a girl whose swimsuit came off in the pool.

"So, um, hypothetically, you'd be interested in doing it again?"

"Are _you_?" Derek asks, furrowing his eyebrows and having the nerve to sound mildly amused by Stiles' fumbling with his words.

"Um. Well, sure, if, well. You'd be up for that," Stiles says, and Derek only looks more amused. "As long as you stop treating me like glass and you promise me that it won't always be this awkward in the afterglow."

Derek smirks, the bastard has the nerve to _smirk_, and leans over Stiles' body, still very naked body, and grips his thigh, hand ghosting up his flanks. "You want me to be rougher with you?"

"I mean, I can handle it. I'm not a girl."

"I know you're not," Derek says, and wraps a strong hand around Stiles' dick. It's still sensitive and still sticky and Stiles instantly bites his knuckles and lets his hips stutter into Derek's hand, another flash of arousal darting through his body. He blames mostly the insatiable teenage hormones and basically nonexistent recovery periods and only partly Derek's hungry eyes—like he's just realized Stiles is one hundred percent edible—for turning him on so damn quickly.

"So, I mean, you want to do this whole thing? With me? Dinners and movies?" Stiles' breath rushes from his lungs as if sucked out by a vacuum and his words hitch. "Maybe breakfast too?"

Derek growls, actually _growls_, and all awkward silences from earlier are suddenly replaced with a thick, sexual tension in the air as Derek feels the need to clear any and all doubts from Stiles' mind and fist his short hair as best as his fingers can get a grip on it, leaning in to lick Stiles' bottom lip.

Stiles groans, figures that he's got plenty of time to get this kissing Derek Hale thing down, and lets his brain shut up for once.

After that, all Stiles remembers is there being no more room for talking, a whole lot of kissing, and thanking the Gods who designed his door to come with a lock.


End file.
